


Our Cookie Cutter Is Bent

by ruethereal



Series: Of Silly Magic Tricks, Unicorns, and Single Fatherhood [2]
Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-21
Updated: 2010-08-21
Packaged: 2017-10-11 04:50:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruethereal/pseuds/ruethereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the same universe as <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/107911">What Two Pence Are Really Worth</a>: Men may sometimes be difficult, but they're always easy to read.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Cookie Cutter Is Bent

It’s still another fifteen minutes before I can technically leave the office.  But normally, even if I was done organizing the data and arguments and finally on my way home, I would never get this sudden, strange urge to call Arthur.  I never call Arthur.  Well, I suppose that’s a bit of a lie.  I call him when I’m late in getting Mordred for the weekend.  But today, maybe I’ll leave when I’m meant to.  I’ll stop by the old flat to see Mordred.  Ah, yes, it wasn’t an urge to call Arthur, but to see Mordred.  I don’t need to call Arthur to do that anyway.  So what if it’s fourteen hours too early?  Mordred’s my son as well.

Oh gods, Mordred.  Children shouldn’t be allowed to grow so fast or become so adorable.  Hearing him yammer on about jousting and sorcery and, good Lord, him calling his teacher a knight and dubbing him “Sir Leon,” I admit, at first I was worried about what Arthur was giving him permission to read or watch.  But declaring himself a prince, and promising he’d protect me from dragons, I fell in love with him all over again.  It’s not every day someone tells me something like that.  Oh, all right, I’ve never been told something like that.  So, naturally, coming from a nine-year-old child, _my_ nine-year-old child, who wouldn’t forgive gibberish about mythical creatures and magic?

“Mademoiselle le Fay?”

“Yes, Owain?”

Owain the sex rat.  My personal assistant.  He only calls me that when he expects a shag when he’s done shredding documents or sending memos or grabbing coffee for the young, loose secretaries to seem a _gentleman_.  So what if I’ve taken up the offer once or twice?  It’s always on my time, never his, the fool.  This won’t be one of those times.  But he doesn’t know that, so of course he’ll try.

“Fancy a drink?  You look like you could do with a pint.”

“What gave you that idea, Owain?”

He leans against the edge of my desk, arms folded across his chest.  I throw him a brief sidelong glance.  His smile is one of boyish confidence and conceit, and my fingers itch to punch him square in the throat.  I’m sure the look on his face would be rather endearing.  But he’s been my PA for more than two years.  It would be a pain to find a new one.

“You seem so tense.  You haven’t been able to focus for much of the day.”

His hand is between my shoulder blades.

“Morgana.”

And now his fingers are dragging through my hair.  Mother of Christ, I hope he washes his hands after using the lav.

 

It’s still another ten minutes before I can _technically_ leave the office.  My desk chair doesn’t make a very satisfying sound when I scoot it back, and his hand has somehow twined so possessively in my hair I feel several strands part company with my scalp as I stand, but it makes the look on Owain’s face all the more enjoyable when I say,

“I’m done for the day.  I’ll require no more of your services, Owain, thank you.”

“You’re leaving?”

I’ve never once left work early, which would explain the disbelief in his voice.  The shock on his face is almost adorable.  Almost.

“Hm, yes.  I’m not getting much work done, so I suppose you aren’t either.”

He follows me to the door, and I catch him reaching for my coat.  Yes, ever the gentleman.  So I take it before he can and shrug into it.

“So about the beer—?”

I push my glasses farther up my nose just to put his face in clearer focus when I fix him with the coldest, most withering glare I can muster (which is rather testes-shivering, I’ve heard, but I don’t like to brag—it’s not becoming of a lady).

“Enjoy the rest of your evening, Owain.”

I close the oak door in his crestfallen, ego-dented face.  Sometimes, I wish men weren’t so easy.

 

Sometimes, I wish men weren’t so difficult.

“It’s rather rude to leave a woman standing at the doorstep, Arthur.  Or have you lost what little sense of courtesy you might’ve had now that I’ve left?”

He’s opened the door only wide enough to stand in the way of my entering the flat.  He’s pouting, but I don’t know if it’s because he remembers that that damned bottom lip of his is my Achilles heel, or if it’s because he’s genuinely disconcerted and determined to not let me in.

“Ex-wives don’t count as women, I’m afraid,” he scoffs.  “And you can’t have left since you were rarely here.”

I’m very tempted to stomp my foot, but, not only would it be immature, but it would risk damaging my hard-earned Prada shagreen peep-toe sling-backs.

“Don’t be a prat.  I just wanted to stop by to see Mordred and ask him what he wants to do this weekend.”

Ah, I’ve stunned another man into surprised silence.  Well, going by Arthur’s own principle, perhaps he doesn’t count as a man anymore now that he’s my ex-husband.

“Have you gone mad?  You don’t do things with Mordred on the weekend.  You leave him in your flat with DVDs and frozen dinners.”

The hurt in his voice hurts me in turn.

“That was only last weekend.”

It sounds pathetic even to my own ears.  Damn, and I was going for half-defensive, half-rational.  Never pleading, no.  Never with Arthur.  I’ve too much pride for that.  He leaves me no choice but to manipulate his own pride.

“Well, if you won’t let me in, at least let me see him out here.  It’ll only take a few.”

Ha, yes, victory.  I can see the tiny cogs working beneath that pretty blonde hair of his—which needs cutting, but saying _that_ would only be making it harder for me.

“Fine,” he grunts finally, stepping back from the doorway in reluctant invitation.  “But we’re in the middle of dinner.”

“I’ve no intentions of staying for takeout Chinese, Arthur.”

 

So I said, but I also had no intentions of staying for still-warm, leftover chicken Marsala.  But Mordred insisted—to Arthur’s chagrin and mine, alike—and so did Merlin.  The infamous Merlin, who was busy teaching Mordred how to make a salt shaker disappear into his lap from beneath a napkin when I walked into the dining room complaining about the mess in the living room.

If he was charming over the phone (the few days ago, and he was), he’s certainly even more charming in person, standing to greet me and introduce himself.  The hand he offers is smooth and rough in unexpected places (which he later explains, after catching me looking at them curiously for the nth time, is his “barista tattoo,” having worked as one since before entering uni), his eyes are a mesmerizing shade of blue and perhaps _too_ expressive, and his smile is a captivating-frustrating combination of unrestrained innocence and unintentional sex appeal.

My favorite kind of smile on a man.

Mordred’s, on the other hand, is one of pure childish delight when he slides off his chair, rushes around the table and Merlin, and collides with my hip.

“Mum!” he squeals.  “Oh, no!  I mean, Mother!  What are you doing here?”

I pry his tiny hands from my skirt to sit in what is obviously Arthur's vacated chair and pat my lap in invitation.  But instead of climbing onto me, he leans forward and rests his elbows on my knees and cradles his chin in his palms.  It’s Uther’s pose—though, of course, it would be ridiculous, and possibly sexual assault, for the eccentric lombard to do what Mordred’s doing.

“I thought I’d come over to ask you what you’d like to do tomorrow.”

I brush back his dark, messy fringe, wondering if both he and Arthur are going for the same un-groomed look.  But he just shakes his hair into its previous state of disarray and titters gleefully.

“Well first, Mother, I’d love to go to Emmy’s coffee shop.  He makes white hot chocolate.  Then I’d love to go to the zoo to pick out a horse.  I don’t need one right away, but every good prince has a favorite steed.  Then I’d love to—”

I don’t mean to tune him out, but he seems content to plan out the entire day for the both of us anyhow, and something catches my attention.  Or, rather, someone: Merlin.  He’s still standing and still smiling, but he looks different now, softer.  His toothy, lopsided grin is replaced by a mere gentle lift at the corners of his mouth, his eyelids heavy as if with drink.  But he’s not looking at me, nor at Mordred.  Surreptitiously, I trace his line of sight and—ah.

_Arthur_.

Arthur who looks different as well, fingertips tucked into the pockets of his jeans, leaning with his shoulder against the wall, and smiling just as gently, just as shy, his eyes wide and bright and just as trained on Merlin.

Who would’ve thought?

“—end the day with what you start with, so, of course, we’d go to Emmy’s café for another round of hot cocoa.”

I smile down at Mordred, and push back his hair from his forehead once more.

“That sounds wonderful, love.”

He straightens up, then, and scratches at his hair.  So stubborn.

 

It’s been less than half an hour, but I’ve had my fill of Arthur’s cooking (which I’ll never admit is better than it should be for a man of his age or status) and of infringing upon the flat’s new sense of warm, cozy domesticity—all three of them have walked me to the door.  I drape my coat in the crook of my elbow, then bend forward to press my lips to the crown of Mordred’s hair.

“I’ll see you in the morning, sweetheart.  Rest up, we’ve a busy day, yes?”

He giggles, nodding.

I favor Arthur with a smile, cursing myself a bit since I meant to smirk.

“Arthur.  Thank you for letting me in, you toss pot.”

He scowls, but Merlin chuckles.  I squint at him, but he seems unfazed.  Well, that’s all right, I’m not going for scrutiny this time.

“Good night, Merlin.  It was lovely meeting you.”

“Likewise,” he says, crooked smile back in place.

I turn and leave, faintly noting the muted sound of the door closing behind me, and glad none of them can see the grin tugging at my own lips.  It’s probably the life I should have, but it suits them far better.


End file.
